


Flightless

by CallMeHopeless (IAmNotBread)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (from Snoke - not reader), Angel Wings, Bird/Human Hybrids, Canon Universe, Chirping, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Mutual Pining, Overdose, Pain, Pining, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Soft feelings, Suicide Attempt, The Force, Winged Kylo Ren, Wings, preening, singing together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2020-04-23 14:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19152574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotBread/pseuds/CallMeHopeless
Summary: His body always knows. Always feels the course of change, even when he's not set foot on his homeworld for over a decade. He feels it as a tingle; even now, even under all of this...defeat. Exhaustion. Pain from his body being sliced clean open, shot into pieces.Where his fingertips trace patterns into the glass, thick feathers interrupt his wandering.(In which everyone has pretty angel wings, Kylo is a sad angsty boy, and the reader is a sucker for lonely Commanders who just want someone to preen with)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know how this happens. Sometimes my brain starts coming up with weird concepts and I just have to roll with them. Anyway: a few days ago I had a dream I woke up tangled around Kylo Ren, and he had these absolutely huge black wings wrapped around us. And he was self-conscious about them and generally all mopey and I was like
> 
> Look let's get all of this down
> 
> We've done mermaids we've done werewolves we've done vampires  
> Now let's do...  
> Bird? People?

The winters on Chandrila are ice-cold.

Not in the same way Hoth freezes through your very bones; not in the same way Vandor punches frost into each heaved breath. The winters on Chandrila bring a crispness that paints the landscape in soft hues that dust the grass with morning dew and let the leaves fall from their perches.

The season changes _everything_.

The people, too: they cannot help it. With the first fall of snow comes a prickle in their backs, comes a softness in their shoulders. Where all summer they have carried light, functional downs: their bodies now yield to the growing winter. Feathers build quickly in those seasonal climates: the wings that linger on the backs of all who live there grow in volume, grow to keep the warmth deep inside.

Humans cannot help this part of their physiology; cannot help that wings sprout from their shoulderblades as children, growing with them long into adulthood. Most are almost entirely cosmetic - decorated ways to find a pretty partner, preened and decorated with oils and paints. Some are so petite that they hardly garner any notice; others wide enough to frame the shoulders, to match the span of the owner's arms. 

Some are larger still.

Some are so large that they span the width of corridors - that they molt in a constant cycle. So large that they reach the floor, too heavy to hold upright in any real sense. So large that one person cannot hope to preen them: the feathers are too thick, too difficult to reach.

And in the winters when they are thickest - it is all too easy to feel as though it is some cruel trick.

Kylo would like to think it's all the product of chance. Circumstance.

They grew to fill a void that etched into his soul. The more the darkness eats him: the heavier they grow.

Infinite. Empty.

_Circumstance._

* * *

 

There's a crack that runs from his temple to his chest.

He looks down and sees it on his skin - a map through pale muscle, all red and puckered. Bacta bandages will do their best, come whatever might; but he's marked for life, now. As a warrior? Perhaps. And perhaps he should be proud. War scars are seldom pretty things; his purpled eye and the gash in his stomach are crude indications of his successes, his failures.

His _failures_.

Outside the plasteel window of The Supremacy; empty space is beckoned by starlight. Somewhere out there is the wreckage of the First Order's plans - a culmination of years of planning. Gone. Smithereens and dust, all burning in the vacuum. The lights in this private room of the medbay are low enough that the only glow is that of the starlight; when he reaches out his bruised fingertips, they meet with cold glass.

It's autumn, now. Somewhere back out there, somewhere between here and the edge of the universe. The leaves will be shedding, the birds building nests from discarded twigs and ferrying back scraps of plant stalks. The mountains will be seeing their first snowfall; little flakes of it that he used to catch in spindly hands, all those years ago.

His body always knows. Always feels the course of change, even when he's not set foot on his homeworld for over a decade. He feels it as a tingle; even now, even under all of this...defeat. Exhaustion. Pain from his body being sliced clean open, shot into pieces.

Where his fingertips trace patterns into the glass, thick feathers interrupt his wandering.

Charcoal black; iridescent in the starlight. Each wing is so large that it cannot be supported by this double-bed: they drape over the sides, drape over the nightstand usually used to keep spare bandages, to house datapads. The bed is propped against the window, and his other wing cannot be said to be thankful for it. It is flush against the cold window, climbing up, up, up: outstretched, it is bent at such an angle that it towers above him.

Much too big for anything. Uselessly large; a hinderance, unless bound tightly with leather or something equally hardy. When he trains, when he fights - he has to force himself to keep them flush to his back. Day-to-day, he'll crush them into his spine with endless straps. In response, his feathers break and shed: some picked away, late at night, when anxiety and panic make him pull them out.

But _still_.

Still they grow bigger by the year. Still during the winter they bulk with feathers; tingling at the faintest brush of his fingertips. He tries to preen them, keep them tidy, but Force - it only makes him more miserable. They only grow back stronger; only tingle and grow outward.

Preening, alone in the dark. Unable to even reach most of the bulk of them.

_Cursed._

A knock at the door snaps him out of his self-loathing. He drops his hand to his side, instinctively trying to curl his wings back towards him. They only tingle and flop in response; so he grits his teeth. Tries to put back on an air of composure.

"Come in."

Warm air fills the room as you enter - uniform neatly pressed and datapad pushed into the crook of your arm. Kylo Ren swears he's never caught so much as a glimpse of you before; never seen you in the medical bay, wandering the coridors. Never seen the way you bite your lip a little, the way you fiddle with a medical device tucked into your pocket. The way loose strands of hair curl outward from a haphazard bun - the way your eyes are sharp as they take him in.

And no - Kylo Ren has most certainly not ever seen anyone with such intricate wings as yours.

They're grand things - by no means as large as his own, mind you - but not at all dainty little things. Bold, thick feathers in an array of colours: scarlet, gold, azure-blue. Layers of them that cascade down to your lower back, stark against your uniform in a way his could never be.

Perfectly preened. Immaculate. Beautiful - you're _beautiful_.

And he...he is...

An idiot. _An idiot with no sense of control, clearly._

"Commander" you smile politely, all bedside-manner with no real joy in it. There's no joy to be found on this ship at the moment - thousands of lives have been lost. Some, he suspects, blame him for this failure.

He knows he does.

"I'm your attending physician. If you don't mind, I'd like to run a few checks. Vital signs, check your reaction times. Just see whether anything needs re-dressing: we've--" _lost a lot of good medics._ "Well, we're a little understaffed at the moment, as you likely know."

Your thoughts are a trickle - anxiety is at the forefront of your mind. Not in fear of him, not per-se: more an uncertainty. Caution, where he has earned it. He is something of a legend, a myth, an authority. Imposing. Prone to outbursts.

He nods, and finds himself looking somewhere, _anywhere_ else.

You move to the bedside lamp, but it's...he's blocking your access, that much he knows. There's a genuine awe in your thoughts over just how big his wingspan is; an awe over the stories not doing it justice. He's used to that thought - though something about this moment prickles a little more in his spine. Perhaps it's the events of the last few days, but he's...wounded. In more ways than one, he feels like he's unstable. Uncertain.

He tenses the muscles in his back, and finds his wing is able to slide from the bedside table to rest against the floor. It overbalances him; he hisses in pain as it pulls at the stitches in his side.

The room is bathed in soft gold; your hand on the sheets.

"Careful," you say softly "you'll rip out your--"

"--Stitches" he says irately, wincing as he uses the muscles in his back to pull his wing back up onto the beside table with a tingling 'thunk'. "It's fine."

He notices that your automatic response was not to touch him - wasn't to help him lift his wing back up and balance it. Wasn't to help him sit up, to offer him a hand.

Good beside manners.

He wonders, for a brief moment, whether he wishes they were a little less good.

"I'm going to examine your bandages...if that's alright" you let him know, moving to place your datapad on the beside table that is definitely not available for use. Instead, you hesitantly put it down at your feet.

He nods - but lets nothing else be said.

The rest of the examination is entirely similar; you typing out notes where needed, keeping track of his vital signs. His eyes always drifting back to the beautiful feathers at your back; one in particular sticking up _just a little too much._  What he would give to preen it for you; to take all of this regret, all of this pain, and put it into something productive. Something intimately warm - something soothing and soft.

His bandages are going to need a great deal more reworking, but are - for now - holding fast. He's very, very lucky to be alive.

A shot from a bowcaster like that should've ripped him asunder.

He closes his eyes; sees his father falling from the platform. Feels the bowcaster shot rip through him, tissue tearing as he moved the Force to keep himself steady.

He's not sure he's all that lucky.

His body is a mess of bruises, purples and yellows and reds: but you find his healing remarkable. For the Jedi, healing used to be a simple affair; and the Force has gifted him with this, too.

When you reach his ribs, your fingers seem to pause. Your brow creases; from your pocket, you pick up a finger-sized torch and let the light drift over his outstretched wing.

"It looks like you've taken some severe damage here" you lick your lips "three of your primary flights and two of your secondary on this wing are looking like they've taken a bad battering. You'll need to preen both wings to keep the damage from causing issues with wing growth. Based on the size of the task, and considering it looks like you've got your winter feathers coming in, I'd maybe see if someone might be willing to help. Do you have anyone in mind?"

No.

No he...of course he doesn't. And he knows you must know that, because for goodness sake; his wings look bone-dry and brittle like an eggshell. And he knows they'll get infected, and you know that too, but he just...

It's too much. Too intimate. When he touches them they tingle and thrum: to have someone's hands just...appraising him...

He shivers; stuck somewhere between fear and longing. Somewhere at the midpoint of knowing how terrified the thought of being so close to another is, and--

_Kriff in a handbasket._

"Thank you, Doctor: that will be all."

Your thoughts spike and scatter like confetti - annoyance, frustration. Palpable feelings of...is that pity, in there somewhere? Or perhaps it's somewhat closer to understanding. Closer to compassion than disdain - and it makes him suck the inside of his cheek to swallow down the torrent of emotion that whirls in his chest.

He can't imagine you ever having had trouble finding someone to preen you. You're just so...

_Lovely._

You give him a soft smile; raising your hand for a moment as though instinctually going to turn off the light. But on seeing his damaged wing slung so close to the light - you slowly retract it, taking a shaky breath and giving a little nod. Spinning on heel, you make way for the door - your colourful, beautiful feathers lightly ruffling in the air. It's something so quiet: a little stirring in his broken chest. Alien.

His eyes follow you all the way to the door, his throat bobbing thickly as he swallows. His spine is tingling worse than ever - it's nearly painfully itchy, his feathers in the wake of your near-touch just desperate to be preened.

Your hands reach the doorway; for a moment, your thoughts ripple.

"It's not routine practice" you nervously say "but if you...that is, if you need medical help with preening out your injured feathers; I'm happy to tend to that. I know it can be quite an intimate issue, but it doesn't have to be. Medically, it's important. For someone in your position."

Did you just...?

You don't wait for him to respond - you just slide out of the door, letting it close softly behind you.

His breath in is stuttery; surprising. His whole body shakes with the force as his head swims with the force of the oxygen. An ache forces its way across his skin: an ache for the long, painful few days that have come to pass. An ache for the battered, broken visage of his body. An ache for his father; an ache for his mother. An ache for the broken feathers on his oversized wings.

An ache for you - for delicate hands and colourful wings and a tender smile.

He lets his hand brush against the dislodged feathers on his wing, lets his fingertips skim the growing down that sits just near his ribs. He shudders from the stimulation, from the feeling of sensitive wings finally getting some sort of attention, some small amount of contact.

With a flick of his wrist, the bedside lamp flickers off.

Starlight bathes his black wings in an iridescent colour; his skin pale as he lets the soft light run over his lips. Lets it soak in the gaping wounds that map his body.

When he closes his eyes, his wings draw closer. Closer than they have in some time; close enough that they almost envelop him, a broken, mistreated blanket of softness.

When he cries: it is silent, save for the rustling of his heavy wings. Save for the sound of his throat cracking under the weight of his loneliness.

He falls asleep to the image of his wings wrapped around you; your fingertips healing the scars that have withered at his soul.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stay." He swallows so thickly that he loses his breath for a moment, hands trembling on his sheets. "Stay. Please stay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicide Attempt
> 
> Okay, so I'm putting a massive trigger warning in here for suicide attempts, and discussion around it. I didn't have to go down this route (and I considered not going down it at all), but honestly, it fits so well with the pacing of the story. I really do feel like at this point in the trilogy (right after TFA), Kylo would've been at his absolute lowest point.
> 
> I have always wanted to put this into words, and now I think this fic provides an opportunity to do that.
> 
> If you feel you can't read it because it's triggering to you: that's totally fine. I'll put a summary at the bottom of the chapter for you. Please look after yourself.

One evening; the world cracks in two.

Kylo staggers into his quarters that night: his eye black, swelling from the smack of his master's hand. Starlight holds him in the fringes of a moment - he collapses on the metal floor of his bedroom, his knees giving out as he dry heaves through his mask. His body _aches_ as though he's burning out, his lungs unable to fill with oxygen. Unable to keep him present.

He throws his mask to the side, letting it dent the floor. Letting the cast metal roll to the edges of his vision: the sound of its journey like the drums of war in his ears.

He cannot bear this.

When he screams: it's _visceral_.

The light fixtures shatter in their sockets, spilling glass across the floor as books fly from their shelves. His bedsheets twist; his datapad webs blue across the LED, flickering with electricity in the most dangerous way. His voice fills the room with the most harrowing sound - pain, raw and utterly uncontrolled. Spit hits the floor, dripping from his lips with a coppery taste: there's still blood in his mouth from the crack of his skin, reminding him of every defeat he could not prevent.

_This is no life at all._

His wings are burning under his cloak. Pinned down by straps, they scream to burst free of it: too full now, too big to be keeping like this. Killing himself - he's _killing himself_ with this. So he rips at the zipper on his padded shirt, dragging it down and letting it bear his crumpled wings to the air. Throwing it off, he fumbles at the straps across his chest; locked in place with so many hinges, the silver buckles refuse to budge under his shaking hands.

He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, hard enough that the pain burns right through him as he violently pulls at the straps. He wants this off, wants it off, wants these fucking wings fucking off and this whole--

The harness _snaps_ off as his wings tear free of it; filling the room so quickly that his body struggles to maintain balance as they stretch out. Every feather tingles; the dry air stinging his brittle wings after being cooped for so long. They tower over his arms, heavy and sore with this broken sensation that wracks his frame, stinging at his eyes until he can hardly take it.

He tries to stumble to his feet: in retaliation, his wings flap with huge swoops of their own volition, forcing him back onto the bed with a defeated sob.

 _"HAVEN'T I GIVEN ENOUGH?!"_  

Kylo's dark locks are plastered to his forehead with sweat - eyes raw with tears. Raw with puckered skin and a pain that he cannot will away. 

_Not this time._

When he reaches for the bottle on the bedside table: it drags at the thick feathers on the back of his wing. They pull apart in the heat of the moment, and he - he reaches with the tips of his fingers, just enough that he feels one of them bend, shooting pain right up through his spine and taking the air from his lungs. The brown bottle has a name printed on the front: little letters, galactic basic that forces him to squint to read it.

Your name.

Pills to help him sleep, to bring down his fevers. One just before bed; no more than two in a day. You had handed them to him with this coy little smile, this nervous flicker of thought that left his heart out of step and his mouth dry as ever. Left him feeling like that little boy in Chandrila, reaching up to catch a falling snowflake in the curve of his palm.

Shirtless, wings outstretched: Kylo swallows so loudly that he hears it hitching in his pounding ears. Darkness creases at the corners of his vision; tendrils of something dangerous, something that eats his bones like an acid. It has since he was young - since he was younger than he can truly remember. All his life, in every corner of every nightmare: the darkness has risen to meet him. Expected him, when he expected nothing of himself.

If he doesn't act now: what is to be next, of the little boy from Chandrila? Who will he be, when these cracks in his lips turn to rivets in his soul? 

And if they don't - what then? Is it worse, to find the sun peels away his skin? Is this clawing feeling of grief any better than his spirit ripping asunder? If darkness is reprieve from the agony of this; surely he should feel relief.

Relief.

He twists the white cap off in his gloved hands. At thirty, he laments for all the boys he could have been. Laments that he has too much Skywalker blood that pulses through his blackened veins: too much spirit to give him little wings and a soft heart and a simple choice.

Control. He has no control.

So he lifts the bottle up to his lips: pours down the contents. They burn in his throat and water at his eyes: all bitter and desperate as he swallows.

He lays back on the bed, letting the weight of his soft wings drape onto the sheets. Already his vision twitches; colour flashes in the corners of his eyes as he waits. Outside, the cold vacuum of space shows flickers of starlight - worlds full of people, full of lives that go about in warmth and sunlight.

When he closes his eyes: he sees his father. He sees his mother.

He sees the darkness, and the light, and all the places in between.

And then: he sees nothing at all.

* * *

Luke once told him that there is no after.

No before; no within. No without, or between, or here, or there. The Force is a river - when it flows, it flows through all things. Death is the Force, and life is the Force, and all things between bow and curve with the tide that moves through it.

The Jedi cannot die. They can only change.

Kylo has lost all hope that the Jedi will humour him - he lost it long ago. The Sith have no sense of these promises: prolonging life is their purest goal. The ends will justify such a thing.

So perhaps his final act is in defiance of the scales. Defiance of how they tip.

Beneath the waves; he feels warmth. Feels the Force move with a familiarity as it winds through his hair, cards through his feathers with the most gentle touches. It busies itself on his softest down like a winter wind; the feel of heavy tears, splashing on his lips. The taste of it is chalky - somewhere nearby, voices melt into the pulsing dark. Flow with the glimmering light.

His wings feel weightless for the first time in all of his days, and it's _blissful_. It's wonderful.

He tries to speak, but something...something blocks his lips. He tastes it on his tongue: something yielding, something stealing his breath. When he darts to lap at it, he feels it curling in his throat.

It presses, and he frowns. Discomfort floods him: reality moves too fast. He twists; toes curling in the water as he chokes, as he gags--

\--As he vomits something sickly grey violently into the plughole.

"Oh kriff. Oh _thank Force."_

The voice comes from behind his heavy body; unfamiliar in his own ears as reality turns on its axis. His stomach heaves again - his whole body shudders with the force of it as he tries to understand. He can't remember...He's not sure...

Water sprays from the showerhead, the lighting dim in his refresher as the smell of blossoms dances in the air. His vision is so blurry and weak that he digs his nails into the tiles, spitting bile into the drain with shockingly good precision. There's a hand somewhere on his shoulder: it presses into his back, warming his skin with the press of gentle circles.

"Get it all up," you coo softly.

Your voice is music to him - it's this intangible warmth, this songlike thing that permeates his mind. He tried--he tried to--

_Shit._

His wings are drenched and heavy; soaked through by the spray of water that drips through his feathers and runs off, steaming the glass. They crane in contact with the tiles - despite the fresher being big enough for at least two, the black mass of his wings fill everything. Make him unable to hide: even from himself.

When Kylo finally finishes hurling up grey liquid; you stagger to lift one of his wings over your head. He grits his teeth at the sudden intrusion, this terrifying jolt that goes straight up his spine from carefully being pushed up, up, up. You crawl underneath it through the warm water; turning to face him with a damp, red flannel.

His hair drips over his eyes as he stays somewhat hunched. Brows pinched in pain as his frame shakes.

_"Hey."_

You say it with this...this softness. Thoughts sway around you; pity is somewhere there, along with pain. Too much pain. More pain than you should have over a man you've seldom met, but still. It's the nature of you, perhaps.

Your white uniform is drenched, hair soaked through as you fumble with the flannel in your fingertips. The exquisite wings on your back are painted even brighter by the mix of water on your feathers; the colours darkened to the most beautiful crimson, the richest gold, the deepest cobalt. As you lean in, you stretch them just a little: Kylo's eyes can't help but follow the motion of it, even as you press the flannel to his cracked lips.

"You're here."

It's hoarse: choked from his lips in a cracked sigh. He feels his eyelids drooping with this deep tiredness, straight down through his bones.

Your lip twitches, no sign of the panic that swirls in your mind. _You can't let him fall asleep. Don't let him fall asleep._

"You missed your check-up. I thought I'd just come to you. And I found...you were..."

He sees a vision of himself: splayed out on the bed, wings limply hanging over the edges as his bare chest failed to rise, failed to fall. His face was washed of colour, eyelids purple and his lips almost white under the weight of it all.

He can't imagine you seeing that. Doesn't want to imagine what that felt like to you.

He has to see it anyway.

It's _all you can think of._

Kylo won't thank you - he can't. He's not thankful for this yet, even if he knows he should be. Could be, maybe, if he felt like this wasn't just another pitying face, leaning in to feel another pang of sympathy. Sympathy for the man who never learned a thing, who never could grow into his skin; the man who was born of a burned legacy, the man who killed his father, the man who--

"I've got you," you say, letting your free hand eclipse his for a moment. His gloves creak as he feels your fingers run over his; this gentle motion, your hands so much smaller than his own. Chasing off that acid in his bones that threatens to scorch him, to burn him whole.

_How the hell do you do this?_

He tries to move to his feet, tries to push up: but his thighs shake and his heart stutters as he braces himself against the glass wall. Instantly, you're joining him: supporting him by grasping his waist, your hands on his muscled torso trying to hold him up. Even as dots flash over his eyes, he can't help but suck in a breath; this hitched thing at the sensation of your careful touch, keeping him steady.

The both of you slowly move from the bathroom - dripping wet on the metal floor, clothes soaked through and wings heavy with the water weight. Kylo's drag behind him limply; miserable in the low light, inky black and tingling with this sharp temperature change. A river of water runs behind you both, leaving a trail that will not abate.

You both come to a stop at the foot of the bed, swaying on the spot. Cold and wet and very, very distant - Kylo's heart aches. His body burns.

He sees in perfect clarity you dragging him to the shower, his prone form limp as you groan from the weight of him.

"I should get you to medical," you lick your lips, shaking your head. "I'm still your primary physician. Commander, I'm supposed to take you to--"

"--I'm fine."

It darts from his tongue with more venom than he expects: in response, you tear away from him. Storming back into the bathroom, you return to him with a wing towel; a soft, bristled towel used to stimulate feathers and dry them. You grit your teeth as you run it over your damp feathers, shaking off droplets as you extend them out, splaying your feathers. Anger flares, the same colours as the crimson on your highest feathers - it twists at your features and paints you in wrath.

Beautiful. You're so beautiful.

"You're _not_ even close to fine. _Don't give me that."_

You don't even know him, but there's this defiance. This fearless _frustration_ that makes his lips part, makes his heart skip a beat: something in being spoken to with such conviction that he's never been used to.

There's a flash of thought somewhere - it stirs in your mind, pulling at hidden places there as he feels it bleed into his own. A compassion that spans something deeper than he can properly comprehend: with it, something indescribably delicate falls just out of his grasp. A fondness that he can't quite place, rippling through the space between you and lighting up the darkest places he can find.

He wishes he could hold it tight enough. Wishes his wounds were skin deep.

Wishes you were closer still than he can quite explain.

"And what will you do? A simple mistake; nothing more can be done for it." He says it so unconvincingly that he winces at the sound; bracing himself on the edge of his bed as his hair drips rivulets to his collarbone.

Your movements freeze.

"Mistake?" you ask, and there's this...this sadness in it. This _hurt_.

And even as he nods, even as he sucks the inside of his cheek: he feels his lip tremble. Feels his eyes sting with something ridiculous, something weak and appalling and stupid, so stupid, he's so stupid, so weak and he could have died, could have _died_.

"Please," his voice cracks on it, his wings so limp that they brush against his little fingers, his heart aching with this pain, this heavy pain, "Don't. Don't ask me to go."

 _Please_.

You bite your lip, flashes of consideration in your mind. Once something solidifies there; he hears the sound of you peeling something away. His hair drips, his eyes on the threads of his sheets as your wet overclothes form this damp pile at the foot of the bed; and oh. _Oh._

_Oh._

He's hardly present as your hands pick at his laces; hardly even present as you help him from his wet socks, from his leather gloves. But even as he floats away, even as he feels his mind reel - the warmth and light that spills from you is something...Force. Something so incredible. Something he needs so desperately that it burns his lungs, chokes him of all oxygen.

"Stay." He swallows so thickly that he loses his breath for a moment, hands trembling on his sheets. "Stay. Please _stay_."

He can't be alone. Not now.

You peel back the sheets, coaxing him as his soft wings shake off the excess water. It sprays about the room with his powerful swoops: the discarded clothes are pushed about as they scatter in the sudden breeze. It's something that should make him embarrassed, should make him nervous - but he only feels this bitter tiredness, this need to feel something other than wounds that etch into his soul.

Kylo wishes he could savour this - savour you. Savour warmth and holding and light, endless light, burning in dark places. But as he settles beneath cool sheets, his wings drape out against the huge mattress of his bed. Every brittle feather spreads itself fully: his body craving the feeling of stretching out after all this tension.

Your underwear is standard black, bra cupping you just so; beautiful wings catching his heavily lidded eyes in the light. He wishes he were someone else - somewhere else. Meeting you in a life where he could be incandescent, too.

When you climb in next to him, when your wings slide up against his: he shivers, this whole bodied shiver of absolute relief.

Oh Force - to feel this. To feel this closeness.

Oh _Force_.

Your arms wrap around his waist, tracing tightly over his muscle as you lean against him. He's not sure at this point which of you is breaching more codes - not sure who owes who, in the chain of authority. Not sure how things came to this; how his luck has turned around.

Uncertain, uncertain, uncertain.

So he closes his eyes, against the tendrils of black. Against the flickers of light.

He nuzzles your hair; you lean into his chest.

His wings stretch out softly,

And sleep carries him to somewhere that feels a lot like peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary for those who didn't read: Kylo overdoses on quite a few pills, reader drags him into the shower and gets him to throw them up. They both are vulnerable and fall asleep in eachother's arms because they dont want to be alone. Fluffy but angsty, right?
> 
> For those who did read: I hope you enjoyed! <3
> 
> [Come visit me over on the Tumblr](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His throat moves with the sound, and Force, it's a sound that comes with endless purpose.
> 
> A call, and a song, and a declaration of something Kylo cannot control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proof that no fic is gone forever, as Luke said

The weeks pass - and Kylo Ren does his best to forget.

He stuffs away the feelings that threaten to rise up in his chest like knives; to burn him down and immolate this whole place back into stardust. He straps his wings and grits his teeth and _endures_.

And as always: he does these things alone.

He catches the sight of you sometimes, in the late hours when he passes medbay windows. Glimpses of you in your pressed uniform, eyes moving over patient charts and spreadsheets. Kylo forces his boots to move, even when he hears a laugh from your quarters: like music, it draws the light straight down into his soul.

He doesn't remember the last time he heard laughter on this ship. Doesn't know if he'd notice any laugh but yours, after that night you spent sleeping on his wing.

Every time he'd drifted back towards consciousness, he'd felt your cheek against his chest. Felt how the soft down of your feathers would tickle against his own, and he'd felt this...this endless stirring, thickening in his blood.

When he'd woken and found you gone...

Grief is not the word. Could never be close enough to what spilled out from under him.

But there's this one peaceful night that it tilts. Tips on its axis, even if Kylo doesn't see it right away.

His huge, empty bed feels collosal in the dark, that cold night. His feathers lick upward from the air conditioner, the black of them bathed in starlight. Still not recovered: not nearly enough, anyway. They're growing too tiresome now to even hold up, as the Winter down comes in: this thick plumage he has no choice but to accept, even if he's barely liable to dodge in combat, now.

And starlight pulls Kylo into some sort of lonely reverie.

Plush lips tremble as he strokes at his feathers with the back of his hand. Mimics what could feel like your breath, if he takes himself back. Tries to focus on the way your warmth would curve into him, your wings so soft and delicate against the harshness of his own.

But then - his lips part.

The sound is something so quiet and uncertain: a chirping, laced with longing in a dark place. Kylo feels it in the back of his throat as the song takes hold - barely a few notes, breaking over his lips even as he tries to force them shut.

His throat moves with the sound, and Force, it's a sound that comes with endless purpose.

A call, and a song, and a declaration of something Kylo cannot control.

A cold sweat breaks over him at the realisation of the thing: of how his very soul is calling out to you, with a song designed to bring you to him. A call his subconscious beckons you to answer; even if he feels it's moot.

He chirps it again. A third time. When the fourth comes; tears sting at his eyes.

_Enough now. Enough._

She isn't _yours_. Isn't your _destiny_.

So Kylo wills his eyes shut, folding his wings around his muscled body in comfort.

And right as sleep tries to claim him - he sings it again.

* * *

When he next has to see you, next has to have his wounds checked upon: he's liable to burn like a solar flare.

The song doesn't leave, no matter how hard he tries. He listens to white noise, puts on galactic broadcasts. Kylo Ren wears his mask and tries, among all other things, to rid his mind of you. Gouge out the song in his heart that he knows is a sure sign that he's grown too attached: a liability, in a place where that is most certainly not allowed.

He trills it in his sleep. Chirps it in the shower.

Destroys his mirrors and paintings and glass objects for the crime of both, and wonders when the madness will end.

He sits on the gurney, calloused hands so tight on his knees that he can barely feel his fingers. His outstretched wings brush the floor; shirtless body coiled with the thick scar that now runs right across his chest. _Won't ever fully heal. He'll never put himself back together._

When you enter - oh, his breath is stolen.

Your hair is looser, eyes bright as you clutch your clipboard and approach him with a flighty step. Your wings have grown _just so_ \- beautiful plumage now well-slicked from careful preening, making that rainbow array of feathers on your back look every bit as iridescent in the light as he's dreamed, curled up in his nest of blankets.

Kylo runs a hand through his dark hair, and tries to forget there's a song in his heart sung only for you.

"Commander," your lips twitch, setting down the metal board on a nearby stool. "How's the treatment been going?"

The bandages are off now; but the ache remains.

_Murderer._

"Fine." He grates his teeth together, willing himself back into the moment. "Healing."

You place a cool hand on his pale shoulder, and Kylo's eyes flutter open and shut in time with the movement of your feathers in the fan. Every place your fingers touch leaks light straight through to his blood: and if he thinks too long, he sees those images cross through your mind.

He was dead. Crossed the threshold.

You _saw_.

Lips press into a thin line as your gaze follows his woven scar across his body; then finding your eyes catching on the inky-black feathers on his back. Heavy, the damned things drape on the gurney without any reprieve from his muscular back.

They _hurt_. He's hurting all over, and growing weaker for every moment he's living in this in-between.

"Do they hurt?" you ask, and you know the answer. Know by the way they're too full of brittle, dying feathers. He just needs to take the time to comb through them, take the time to touch them, time to ask to just--

"No. It's bearable."

He hates himself for the lie, and it shows on every angle of his lips.

You audibly sigh.

"I can't help you if you don't want help. You know that."

His teeth grind. "Then don't help me."

A noise of frustration when you stand; another when you tap your datapad and bring up his vitals.

"My job is to _save lives._ To save _your life--_ "

"--I never asked that of you."

It's not fair - and he knows it.

Your face contorts: pain reverberating through the Force as your body aches under the strain of him lashing out. Kylo's jaw tightens: you shaking your head as you shut down your datapad.

"Fine," you wring your lips. "Fine. I can find you another primary physician. I can see this isn't working for you."

Oh.

Fuck. No. Wait...

His eyes drop to his boots; Kylo sucking the inside of his cheek as you shuffle in your coat. His heart feels like it's ripping asunder - the scar across his torso ripping him into splintered pieces at the pain in your eyes.

You step towards the door, and Force. Oh Force, please, just don't--

Kylo feels the song bubbling up in his throat: feels the way it pulls at the corners of his lips. Feels the way his heart longs to sing it - to call out to your soul, deep and rich and full of promise, as he did in all of those nights he's waited for you.

So he rubs at his jaw. Brings his hand up to his mouth.

And lets you walk away, wings trailing in the low light.

It's enough to leave him burning all over again.

* * *

The halls are hollow, that very same night cycle.

He wakes to find himself chirping out that melodic tune - craving you, even in his restless sleep. His soul is broken; mind reeling, begging for you to ease the sorrow deep inside him. When humans find emotions unravelling together, when they feel a pressing desire for someone their heart yearns for: the song grows in their hearts until it spills right out as a song.

Some never find themselves singing, and others sing of yearning all their lives. Kylo's father and his mother held those songs deep in their lungs until they burst forth, and it was catastrophic enough to ignite them both into a longing so deep that he wonders if they ever quite recovered.

So he tries to take the song from his throat; before the bird in him is ripped apart by it.

Sleepless, with bruised undereyes: he moves barefoot through the upper deck, wings dragging on the metal floor. A feather comes dislodged, and he almost doesn't care - almost just leaves it to its fate on the floor, if not for his own disgust at the thing taking over. He pockets it into his sleeping pants - loose, black cloth things - and his fingers tap the hilt of his saber on instinct.

Instinct. He's a creature of habit, these days.

His loose t-shirt fits to leave spaces for his wings as he rounds a corner - dark eyes watching for signs of life that might happen upon him in this dreadful, sorry state. Luckily, this area is almost devoid of anyone of rank, at this time in the cycle.

Kylo's lips wobble, and a chirp whistles between his teeth.

"Stop it," he spits to himself "st--"

_Chirp._

It always starts like this. Little clicks and whistles, his subconscious seeking out the right note before it finds the first part of the song.

His blood runs cold, and he groans.

Kylo's throat moves and the song starts; a short, sharp thing made only for you. Every mate has a different call - every lover, a song just for them. No two in the galaxy are ever the same: they are understood in every language. Comprehended across the stars.

The call is soul-deep, and Kylo slams the heel of his palm against the wall, chirping a soft tune all the while.

If it weren't from his lips: he might just think it was the most beautiful tune he's ever heard.

When he finishes, he hits his palm against the metal wall again. The smack radiates pain right up through his arm; burning, twisting in his wrist as he flexes his fingers. Fuck. Fuck's sake - she's your doctor. 

 _Was_. _Was_ your doctor.

The ache of that realisation is acid in his bones; hitting him with such a force that his throat warbles again.

 _Please_ , his song begs. _Sweet love - please hold me close._

"...Kylo?"

It's almost soft enough to picture you're ethereal. Almost distant enough to feel it's just a moment of weakness, pulling within his heart.

But he turns - and oh.

Your eyes are dark and puffy; hands clenched at your sides in the low light. Just a strappy top and loose sleeping pants, but still the most stunning creature he's ever seen.

The deep blue in your wings seems bluer than he's ever seen it, and Kylo's throat is bone dry.

He should've felt you in the Force. Why didn't he--?

"Commander," you murmur, breathless as your take a step towards him. "What are you d--"

"--Couldn't sleep. And you?"

You nod; huffing on a laugh.

"Couldn't sleep."

Ah.

Oh Force. Force, how much he just wants to reach out to you. Let you run your fingers across the soft planes of his wings again; preen him in the way you promised you would, weeks ago.

He might just give anything for it, in this moment.

Kylo feels his hands trembling, teeth nipping at his lips as he stares at you through hazy eyes.

"I don't know why I'm here. Don't quite..." you shake your head; and oh.

Force, oh--

_Chirp._

It rises in his throat as he tears his eyes away; turns in absolute horror when his breath steals away and the song breaks through his lips. A song for you - only for you, begging and pleading for the touch only you can give. A song for you - a call, dark and endlessly wanting.

 _I'm so alone,_ he sings, _but all I need is you._

_Just you, and just this. Please._

And from behind; he hears a chorus rising in your lungs.

 _Let me kiss away the scars on your soul,_ your heart chirps, _let me know you as you are._

And the song is beautiful. Burning in a dark place.

Your soul is drifting; and his will take flight to meet you.

Out into the stars.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not crying you're crying shut up
> 
> [Come visit me over on the Tumblr!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


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